


After a Fight

by howler32557038



Series: The Handler [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Electroconvulsive Therapy, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, Medical Torture, Men Crying, Sad Ending, Sadism, Torture, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 05:06:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3755521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/pseuds/howler32557038
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexander Pierce pulled out his cellular phone and his glasses, sighing again. More disappointment. This was not going well. The Master’s finger tapped against the screen, and then he held it out, in front of the Asset’s face.<br/>Security feed. The Vault. STRIKE operatives with their guns raised. The Master, with his back to the camera. The Asset could see himself in the chair.<br/>"Mission report."<br/>The Asset on the screen did not answer. He watched, horrified, as the feed remained silent for long seconds.<br/>"Mission report, now."</p>
            </blockquote>





	After a Fight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [howelleheir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/howelleheir/gifts).



The Winter Soldier was blind. Deaf and blind. He knew that his eyes were wide open, but he could only see shifting, bursting fields of bloody pinks and reds, neon blues and greens, sickly yellows, and flowering, expanding blackness. He knew that he was screaming - he could feel the air leaving his lungs, abrading his throat - but he couldn't hear the sound.

He screamed until his lungs were empty. The burn in his chest grew until he heard a sound - sharp, persistent ringing, and some deep part of his brain forced him to focus his body amid the chaos to drag in a single breath. His chest filled with precious oxygen as he sucked in through his nose and mouth, around the rubber bite-guard. Then, involuntarily, the air was being squeezed out again, and the dry, scraping sensation returned to his throat. He must have started screaming again.

And the cycle repeated. The first repetition brought a single word to his mind. _No._ It became a mantra. _No._ It rattled inside his head, like a fly between window panes. _No. No. No Nnn. No. NO._ It would fade, become soft, quiet, pleading. It would stutter and skip. It would stretch out for eternities, long and low in a phantom voice inside his smoldering, recoiling brain. Its pitch would climb, the tempo becoming wild and breathless, until it beat in his ears like shrieking machine gun rounds. He heard it so many times. Too many times. It lost its meaning.

The nature of his blindness evolved. The swirling colors and explosions of darkness became white. He heard a sound like a whistle in his ears. The whiteness shrank to points of light. The ceiling came into focus around them. The whistle dulled and dipped to a low buzz, and the buzz became voices.

"Yeah, that was two and a half. He probably wants a standard five minute session."

"How's his heart rate?"

"Little high right now. Give him thirty seconds before round two. Check that mouth guard."

"Still secure."

The Asset can hear himself panting raggedy. He can feel wetness around his eyes.

"Christ, I hope he doesn't piss himself again."

He wants the next round to kill him. If he is dead, there will be no more wipes. If he is dead, they will lift his body out of the chair and take it somewhere cool and silent.

"That's not his fault. Let's just put you in the chair, see if you can control your bladder.

They would not put him in the chair of he was dead.

“Heart rate’s back in the seventies.”

“BP’s alright.” A click. The plates had only raised halfway. They whirred, descending again. Crackling, like fire, consuming a house.

The Winter Soldier was blind. Deaf and blind.

 

Alexander Pierce had turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to the Asset. After ordering the wipe, he had stepped outside the Vault with the STRIKE team, who stood guard outside the barred gate, pulled out his cellphone, checked his email, waited patiently for the screams to stop.

Five minutes passed. The screams turned to groans. He wanted to speak to the Soldier himself before they imprinted the new mission on him. He had to be sure they were working with a clean slate. This operation was too delicate. There was no room for error, and he had questions for his Asset - questions that were well above the tech’s pay-grade.

He stowed his phone and glasses inside his breast-pocket. “Rumlow.”

The man looked up from the floor, one eyebrow showing the barest hint of a cautious twitch. Good. It was well-warranted, after the man had let Phase 2 of the mission fail so miserably, allowing Hydra’s targets to escape. He’d deal with that later. “Sir?”

“Give me security blackout. I need to talk with him.”

“You want any backup? He hasn’t been on the best behavior today, sir,” Rumlow suggested, disabling Vault security remotely from his phone.

“Well, neither have you,” said Pierce, amused that Rumlow didn’t seem to realize how much trouble he’d caused his employer. “You’re not the one asking the questions today, Rumlow. In fact, after I get done with him, I may have a few for you, too.” Pierce couldn’t keep a satisfied smirk off his face as he saw the assassin’s Adam’s apple bob nervously. That had certainly shut him up.

Pierce let himself back into the Vault, waving away a STRIKE operative who rushed to open the gate for him, striding in with purpose and stopping directly in front of the Soldier - dazed and panting in the chair, bite-guard removed and jaw hanging slack. He turned a sharp glance on the med techs, who were talking to one another quietly, discussing the changes in the Asset’s brain scan.

“Give me the room,” he interrupted. He didn’t have time to waste on politeness today. The techs looked up, stricken by his tone, and nodded, hurrying out to go and wait with the STRIKE team.

 

The Soldier's vision was returning. The burning white light was beginning to recede, and slowly, a dark figure took shape before him. Hydra's conditioning screamed in his brain, _Master_. Another, fresher memory still lingered, something from the last seconds before he'd been wiped. The Master must have been here then, must have been the one to order the techs to wipe him. That seemed to make sense. His mind was swimming in electricity, but he still knew that he was in this man's service. At his mercy.

The man sighed. The Asset detected disappointment. If the Master was disappointed, it meant that he had failed or malfunctioned. He was being disciplined, then. He couldn't remember what the malfunction had been. He wished he knew, so that he wouldn't repeat it. But that was for the techs to fix. It was better to let them repair him. It was the best way to avoid disappointing the Master.

“Eyes up, Soldier.”

The Asset blinked to clear his vision. The Master was ordering eye-contact. It was a rare order, but he knew the protocol. He looked into the Master’s eyes. It hurt his stomach, but he held the Master’s gaze. The unpleasant feeling must have been part of his discipline. He tolerated the pain without complaint.

“You had some very interesting questions for me earlier. Remember what they were?”

The Asset searched his memory. He did not remember asking the Master questions. He could not imagine asking the Master questions. That was why he was being disciplined. He wished he hadn’t done something like that. He knew better.

“Don’t...sir.” His voice sounded slurred. He didn’t know if their was a problem with his speech or with his hearing. His own voice sounded low and distant, and his throat felt raw.

“Do you remember your last mission?”

The Asset searched again, looking for any information that fit, but the timeline was mostly bare. “Two targets...level 6. Ten hours to...eliminate.” He tried, but there was nothing else that he could tell his Master. He hoped his answer had been sufficient.

“Is that all?”

The Master’s voice demanded a prompt response. “Yes, sir. I can’t remember any more.”

The Master broke the eye-contact, telling the Asset that the order had been fulfilled and he was once again allowed to shut his eyes against the bright lights overhead. The Asset heard the familiar clicks of the cuffs releasing and then the hiss of hydraulics as the back and head rests rose up underneath him.. He struggled not to collapse, not to let his heavy limbs sag into the chair. To show weakness would be disrespectful to his owner. The Master wanted a functional weapon, not a broken one.

“Get up.”

The Asset knew he had to comply, but he realized fearfully that his current operation levels might not allow it. He focused his mind entirely on commanding his burning muscles, and managed to stand. Then came the dizziness. He felt it for only a moment, before he heard radio static and felt nothing at all.

 

He was on the floor. His forehead was pressed against the cool concrete, his knees tucked underneath him, his arms limp at his sides. This would warrant further discipline. Further repair. Even his strong aversion to that couldn’t seem to help him control his malfunctioning body, though. He felt as if he was on a boat, being rocked by ocean waves, although he couldn’t remember being out on the open water before. He merely knew the feeling. He clutched at the smooth floor, trying to find purchase and push himself up, but the ground pitched underneath him and his stomach emptied, spilling warm water and bile on the floor. It pooled underneath his face, and the acrid smell made him vomit again. He begged his body to cooperate with the Master. He begged it to stop misbehaving. He didn’t want to go back to the chair, but that was where he’d go if he couldn’t follow orders.

“Up. On your knees.”

He dug the Weapon into the floor and managed to comply. The Master stood in front of him, looking down. There was disgust on his face. The Asset wanted to clean up the vomit. The Master shouldn’t be forced to look at it. But he hadn’t been ordered to do so, so he sat still.

“Who is Captain Rogers?”

He didn’t know. He searched, but there was nothing solid enough to grab on to. Something about it sounded familiar, but he couldn’t be sure, couldn’t give the Master a coherent answer, so he remained silent, and lowered his eyes to the floor.

“That name means nothing to you?”

The Asset didn’t understand. It was a name. It meant the person it belonged to. He did not know who that was. “No, sir.” But his mind was still searching, trying to put fleeting thoughts together and failing. It made his voice distant, unsure. The Master noticed. The Master always noticed. He pulled out a cellular phone and his glasses, sighing again. More disappointment. This was not going well. The Master’s finger tapped against the screen, and then he held it out, in front of the Asset’s face.

Security feed. The Vault. STRIKE operatives with their guns raised. The Master, with his back to the camera. The Asset could see himself in the chair.

_Mission report._

The Asset on the screen did not answer. He watched, horrified, as the feed remained silent for long seconds.

_Mission report, now._

Silence, again. How, _how,_ could the Asset have not given the Master his report? The Asset had never watched himself malfunction before. It was unthinkable. The stench of the vomit beneath him rose up, making his guts clench, sick from terror and the awful smell. He cringed when the Master slapped the Asset on the screen. He could almost remember how it had stung, but it hurt worse to watch it. To watch the Master forced to ask him _twice_. He didn’t want to keep watching, but the Master didn’t move the screen, so he swallowed, and did not look away.

_That man on the bridge...who was he?_

The Asset recognized his own voice. _No. Don’t, please, don’t,_ he wanted to shout. _Answer the Master’s question. Do not ask him questions. Don’t break protocol. Report. Report! REPORT._ But the Asset in the chair did not listen. The camera hadn’t been close, but he could still see his own eyes looking up, directly into the Master’s face, without an order. Making eye-contact without permission. He wanted to reach out and slap the Asset for himself. He should not disrespect his Master like that.

But the Master sat down. The Master did not strike him again.

_You met him last week on an earlier assignment._

He had _answered_ the question? The Asset’s eyes dropped to the floor again for a moment, hurt, confused. The Master was being _lenient_ with him. Trying to help him. And he was still not giving his report. He wanted to smash the phone, but it belonged to the Master. He would not touch the Master’s things, no matter how angry he was. The Master spoke more on the recording, but he could hardly hear it over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. _Listen to your Master,_ he begged. _He’s being kind. He’s always kind. But you are still misbehaving._

The Master’s voice went quiet, but the Asset still said nothing. Continued to stare defiantly. _Stop. Give him the report. STOP._

_But I knew him._

He had argued.

He had _argued_ with his Master.

He felt like he’d been punched in the chest. He couldn’t breath. He couldn’t watch anymore. He didn’t remember a man or a bridge - why, _why_ had he argued with the Master...over something so inconsequential? He wanted to throw himself on the ground at his owner’s feet and ask to be forgiven. He wanted to show him that he could behave. But the Master had not ordered him to beg. He remained silent.

On the screen, the Master rose from the stool. Ordered the techs to wipe him. _Good_ , he thought. The Asset in the chair deserved to be wiped. He didn’t deserve the Master’s leniency.

He thought that now, surely, the Master would take the screen away. Ask him more questions, discipline him more. But the phone remained still. He was expected to continue watching.

Even with the cellular phone’s scarce audio output, he could hear the hydraulics in the chair hissing. His stomach was on fire. His hands were shaking. The plates were coming down. _Please, sir, I don’t want to see it, I don’t want to see it, please, please take it away don’t make me watch I don’t I can’t -_ The electricity crackled on the phone’s small speaker. His screams had been loud enough to make the audio cut in and out. The body in the chair convulsed, moved by invisible currents, shaken by the volts being pumped into its brain. He could see the hands - his hands - clutching at the chair’s armrests. Any part of his body that was not firmly held by the cuffs spasmed and tensed. Even on the low-quality feed, he could see the whites of his own eyes. The pain looked unimaginable. The Asset knew he had earned it, but that did not make it scare him any less.

The soldier released an unsteady breath as the Master finally took away the phone and put it back inside his pocket. The Master removed his glasses and twirled them between him fingers. When the Master finally spoke, his voice was sharp and sudden, and the Asset flinched.

“Gruesome, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the Asset breathed. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you think you’re the only one who hates it?”

The Asset didn’t know how to respond. Was the chair hurting someone else? “I...I don’t know, sir.”

The Master bent down, studying his weapon, his gaze severe. “You think it doesn’t _kill_ me to do that to you, soldier?”

The Asset felt himself blanch white.

“You think I don’t hate it, when you make me do something like that? It’s _unbearable_.”

The Asset didn’t know what to say. He sucked air in quickly, desperately, his throat and chest aching with guilt. When he could manage to form words and force them out of his burning chest, he said, “I’m so sorry, sir.”

The Master’s mouth tightened into a thin line as he stood. “I know you are.” The Asset bowed his head in submission, hoping that this meant that the master would forgive him. “But you understand if I’m not ready to take you at your word, just yet. Hydra needs us both, right now. Our missions have never been so crucial. Failure - on your part or mine - would be disastrous. So I have to ask you a few more questions, and you have to answer them. If I allow myself to be lax in maintaining your functionality right now, it could cost us both everything. Is that clear, soldier?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Master nodded. “Do you remember the man you saw on the bridge?”

“No, sir.” The Asset understood now that the man on the bridge had been no one he was meant to know. He did not attempt to remember him.

“I’m going to say a few different names. I’d like you to tell me what you remember about each of them.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Aleksander Lukin.”

“Previous Master. Russian. Deceased.”

“Nothing else?”

“No, sir.”

“Vasily Karpov.”

“Previous Master. Russian.” He did not know what had happened to Karpov.

“Arnim Zola.”

“Hydra scientist. Swiss. Deceased. First developer of Winter Soldier program. He wore glasses.”

“Corporal Timothy Dugan.”

Nothing. The Asset remained silent, eyes trained on the floor.

“Captain Steven G. Rogers.”

Something...happened. But it was a feeling, not a memory. He disregarded it. “Nothing, sir.”

“Sergeant James Barnes.”

Another feeling, but he could not tell if the feeling was related to the name. He didn’t see how it could be. “I’m sorry, sir. I don’t remember.”

The Master smirked. “That’s fine. Just tell me if something strikes a nerve.” But then the Master inclined his head, eyes narrowing. Carefully, questioningly, he said, “Steve Rogers.”

The feeling, again. Stronger this time. And now there was an image, too. A pair of lips, split. A broken nose. His own hand, holding a dish-towel. Blood on the cloth, on his fingers. He couldn’t make sense of the pictures though. He would not waste the Master’s time with them. “No, sir.”

“Nothing?”

“I...thought of blood on my hands, sir. I don’t know why. But that’s all.”

The Master nodded, seeming pleased, but then his face hardened, as if he had suddenly remembered something, and did not like it.

“Bucky.”

The word struck the Asset like a fresh jolt of electricity, like being wiped in reverse. More images, and a terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, like the rush of falling. Cold wind. Roaring, screeching noises. A hand reaching out toward him. A face with wide, blue eyes, mouth forming a _word-_ -

The Asset felt paralyzed by fear. The image had been too vivid, but he was afraid to speak about it. Too afraid. And the word still didn’t have meaning to him. It was just a word - nonsensical, utterly meaningless and he could give the Master no definition. His voice wavering, he answered, “No, sir.”

The Master’s eyes fell on him. Gripped him like a vice. “Did you just _lie_ to me, Soldier?” The Master walked away, came to stand behind him. Suddenly, there was a hand in his hair, pulling tightly enough to make his eyes water, and it pushed forward until, still dizzy from the chair, he collapsed under it. His cheek smacked against the metal floor, and the cold vomit splashed and smeared against his skin.

“Did you,” he took a breath, and suddenly there was more force behind every word, _“lie to me?”_

His eyes watered more, and the ache in his throat became worse. “No, sir! No, no, no!” his voice was a hoarse, pleading whisper. Pitiful. He sounded like one of his targets, begging for their life. He would not have spared them.

“The techs can repair a malfunction, but if you’re being intentionally dishonest, I’m afraid we need to have a very different discussion.”

“Sir, I can just see pictures! I don’t know what they are!” The Asset was weeping. The Asset had never wept before. It was painful. “Please, sir, please, I don’t know why they happen. I don’t know what they mean. I’ll behave, sir. I won’t fail again, I won’t! I will follow my protocols. I will not ask questions. I will not argue with you or look at you, sir.” The Asset knew what he must look like, lying there on the ground, his face filthy, stinking with sweat and bile, tears and mucus dripping down his face. He knew, but it didn’t matter, so long as the Master could see that he was telling the truth.

The hand stopped pulling his hair. His scalp tingled. He continued to cry, because he didn’t know how to stop. He heard the Master’s footsteps in front of him.

“Up.”

The Asset dragged himself out of the mess on the floor. His hair stuck to his face, trapped by the wetness of tears and vomit, but he didn’t touch it. He wouldn’t do anything ever again, unless he was ordered. He was sure of it.

“Go sit down, before you faint again.”

The Asset dragged himself back to the chair and sat, head low, trying to hide his face from his Master’s eyes. He did not want his Master to have to see the ugliness of weeping.

“Hey.” The Master’s voice sounded so gentle. “I know that was hard, but you did just fine.”

He hadn’t failed. _He hadn’t failed._ The tears began to fall less frequently. The pain in his throat lessened. He knew the Master would know how to make it stop, even if he didn’t. He belonged to the Master, and not to himself, after all. The Master could make him function correctly.

“I can see how hard you’re trying. I know you want to be good. You just want to do what’s right, and I’m very proud of the effort you're making.”

The Asset was having trouble controlling himself again, but this time, there were no tears, no choking, painful breaths. The corners of his mouth twitched and curled, and his cheeks felt warm. He didn’t know why, or what it meant, but he couldn’t make that stop, either.

The Master saw, and smiled. He reached out, placing his hand on the top of his weapon’s head. “I’m going to give you the chance to make this right. Think you can do it?”

The Asset was breathless. “Yes, sir.” He even nodded, but he kept his head low in submission.

“Good. I’m going to send the techs back in, and they’ll give you your next mission. Please,” the Asset’s ears rang at the sound of that word. “Behave yourself.”

 

Pierce left the Asset sitting on the edge of the chair, smiling. It was eerie to see that man, that _thing_ smile. He let an operative open the gate for him this time, pulling a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and wiping off his hands. Once the gate had shut behind him, he turned to the techs, gauging the awe on their faces. Maybe they’d been eavesdropping. Hell, what did it matter? He strolled over to the wall, to a small trash can, and disposed of the handkerchief. “Hose him down. He threw up all over himself. After that, hit him again.”

The techs stood still, their eyes wide. “So soon?” One of them managed to ask.

“It’s not my fault you didn’t get the job done the first time around. Get him cleaned up, and then wipe him again. I want ten minutes this time. Five minute intervals.”

The techs nodded. Pierce, satisfied that there would be no more questions from them, turned his attention to the operative behind him, waiting on his orders. “Oh, and Rumlow,” he quirked a smile at the agent. “Go get a mop.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the puke.


End file.
